


Honour Bound

by BurntWhisper, Idlewilde



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Adult Alex Rider, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, British Officer Alex, French Commander Yassen, Implied dub con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurntWhisper/pseuds/BurntWhisper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idlewilde/pseuds/Idlewilde
Summary: In the Napoleonic War captured officers were afforded a pardon - freedom in exchange for an oath on your honour as a gentleman not to continue fighting. With vital intelligence that might win a decisive victory, Alex Rider takes the pardon and with it certain death. He has only sworn one oath before - to his country - and if forced to choose between breaking that or the oath to this French officer the choice was easy. The consequences, however, were….unexpected.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66
Collections: AR Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigma/gifts).



> This was a pinch hit for a fic exchange. Many thanks to victoryhonorfame for help with the ideas and some of the narrative.

_October 1813_

_Saxony_

Alex had always known he would get caught one day. He was too reckless for his luck to last forever.

Reckless wasn’t what Alan Blunt called it. ‘A strong sense of patriotism’ was the term he preferred - the highest praise he seemed to know; perhaps because he worked for the Foreign Office where patriotism was the basic lingo for how to interact with the rest of the world. ‘Very patriotic’ Alex’s actions were deemed every time his skirmishing nearly got him killed but Wellington was one step closer to defeating Napoleon once and for all.

‘Skirmishing’: Blunt’s favoured term again, although it seemed to Alex that skulking was a more apt description, his instructions always rather more geared to spying on the enemy than skirmishing with it. All in the name of defending Britain’s honour, and never mind that Alex had more than done his tour of duty in the wars against Napoleon and had been looking forward to a nice tactical position in the War Office. The war with the French continued to drag on, and Alex was too good at collecting and delivering intelligence to retire.

Well, he thought as he was forcibly steered into the camp by the two French soldiers either side of him, he might have managed to do some fairly impressive collecting on this occasion but so far the delivery had gone rather awry. And it didn’t look as though he was going to get a chance to rectify that.

“Do you mind?” he asked the officers irritably. “Your grip’s a little tight.”

The soldiers ignored him - even though Alex had spoken French - just as they had done from the moment they had caught Alex, Tom and James an hour ago. (Alex tried not to dwell on the foot soldiers he’d brought with him; he’d been hauled off without any explanation before he could bargain for their lives.) _Bloody Frogs_. They were all the same - on their high horses every moment of the day and far more concerned with appearances and saving face than good sensible negotiation.

It didn’t bode well. 

He was trying not to contemplate what was coming. Everyone knew about Napoleon’s unwillingness to honour the previously established tradition of exchanging prisoners of war. There were thousands of British officers spread out over Europe now, forced to have surrendered their swords but otherwise living in the relative comfort of gentleman’s clubs and gambling houses - not a bad life if you ignored the fact they were forbidden from returning to their own side. But Alex hadn’t been asked to surrender his sword, nor marched off to the nearest French-controlled town. He’d been brought to the heart of the French military camp - and he’d never heard of _that_ happening before. 

His attempts to force down the feeling of trepidation weren’t helped by the jeers and derisive looks his British uniform received as he was marched through the series of tents, towards a stone hut.

Alex knew who would be inside. The commanding officer for this part of the French army. Far above Alex’s pay grade. 

He _definitely_ didn’t like where this was going.

They halted in front of the oak door of the hut. One of the soldiers knocked on it.

“ _In_ ,” said a man’s voice in French.

The door was pushed open and Alex shoved forwards. He found himself in a sort of study - surprisingly nicely designed, considering that they were in the middle of a camp, with a mahogany desk at one end, a fireplace, and a fine woollen rug on the floor that looked suspiciously as though it might have been lifted straight from the home of a French aristocrat. There was a blond man writing at the desk, dressed in the dark blue and white coat of the French army officers. He glanced up as Alex stumbled inside: a cold grey-blue gaze that made Alex halt where he was. 

“Alexander Rider, I presume?” He spoke in English - barely with an accent. He was older than Alex - though by how much was impossible to say. His face was barely lined; there were no grey hairs in sight.

How he knew this was unclear, since Alex hadn’t told the arresting officers his name. Alex said nothing. The man raised his eyebrows, putting down his quill and sitting back in his seat.

“Since you’re alive by my will only,” he said, “you should think about your approach to questions I already know the answer to.”

“Why are you asking them, then?” Alex bit out. That earned him a cuff around the ear from one of the officers next to him. Alex didn’t feel badly about it; he was already feeling a bit braver. Despite knowing who Alex was, despite bringing him here, this man hadn’t given the orders to kill him; he had to want something. 

“I’ll take that as a yes to my question,” the man behind the desk said. “Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t make it my business to know the commanding officers of the enemy.”

This earned him another pair of raised eyebrows. “You should consider making it your business.”

There was something underlying his tone - a suggestion Alex couldn’t quite grasp hold of. He didn’t answer, unsure of what was expected.

“Yassen Gregorovich,” the man supplied. 

“That doesn’t sound very French.” Alex wasn’t bothering to hide his rudeness again, but Gregorovich seemed amused rather than offended.

“It’s not,” he said. “The French recruited me from the Russian side. That should tell you something about the sort of man I am, Alexander.”

Amoral. Unpatriotic. In it for himself. Alex grasped the point well enough.

“What do you want?” he asked slowly.

There was a pause. Then Gregorovich raised one hand, flicking it in the unmistakable sign of a dismissal. The grip on each of Alex’s arms dropped and he turned around to see the two arresting officers leaving. The oak door closed behind them. 

Alex and Gregorovich were left alone.

He turned back to find that Gregorovich had stood up and was walking around his desk. He approached Alex, only coming to a halt when they were just a few feet apart. It was a lot closer than Alex would have found comfortable - and easily close enough for him to have lashed out if he’d wanted to, but that would have been stupid, even for him. Gregorovich was the same height as Alex, and slim, but even in his uniform it was obvious that he was in excellent shape. Alex raised his gaze haltingly from Gregorovich’s tight-fitting tunic to his face. At this proximity he could see Gregorovich’s icy eyes were framed by long, almost feminine lashes. He was handsome, Alex noted, and then wished he hadn’t.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Alexander.” Gregorovich’s voice was soft; the air of confiding something intimate. Alex fought the urge to step backwards.

“Have you, now?” In Alex’s role it was never comforting to be at an information deficit, and he was feeling strongly as though he’d missed a step somewhere.

“You have quite the reputation,” Gregorovich acknowledged. “The thorn in the French’s flesh, they call you.” He tilted his head slightly. “It has been counseled that it would be a thorn best….removed.” 

His tone had only sharpened by the barest of fractions, but somehow Alex fought not to flinch. In spite of Napoleon’s disdain for prisoner exchange, officers being given quarter was a point of honour. It was part of the rules of war. The trouble was, Gregorovich didn’t strike him as the type for niceties. Despite his calm manner and quiet voice, there was something inescapably dangerous about him.

On the other hand, he hadn’t killed Alex so far.

“It would make quite a mess to handle that in here,” Alex said. He raised an eyebrow, allowing himself to cast a disdainful eye around the office before settling his gaze back on Gregorovich. Not wholly to his surprise, he got an amused smile in return. 

“Fortunately for you, I am currently beholden to the European approach to such things.” The Russians, Alex recalled, were not so fond of the use of parole. Gregorovich’s gaze surveyed Alex for several long seconds. He hadn’t moved to put any distance between them. “So,” he said eventually, “I will give you a choice. Your first option is that you join your men in the local prison until you can be dealt with.” 

Alex fought to keep his expression steady at the news that Tom and James were alive. In a local prison - which would be pretty dismal conditions - but that was better than the alternative Alex had feared. “And the second?”

Gregorovich’s gaze bore into Alex. “You provide me your word, as a _gentleman_ , to remain out of the war.”

The standard treatment for officers, then. Had Gregorovich really dragged him here to tell him he was treating Alex the way Alex would have expected for his rank?

Suspicion - or perhaps uncertainty - must have shown in his expression because Gregorovich spoke again.

“ _Alexander_. We both know you aren’t an ordinary British skirmisher. I need to be very sure, if I grant you parole, that you won’t attempt to cause...mischief.”

He seemed very sure Alex was going to take the second option. Alex felt quite like pointing out that under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have even considered it. He’d always promised Tom and James that if anything happened, he wouldn’t abandon them. It wasn’t exactly considered dignified for officers to be in the common jail, but it did happen. 

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

Alex had intelligence. Important intelligence he hadn’t yet delivered. Sometimes the information he obtained was only of borderline significance, but this wasn’t like that. This was the sort of thing that might just win Wellington the war.

Outside of jail, there was just about a chance he might be able to deliver it after all. Just scratch out the letter, find a runner, and then…..he didn’t really know. He couldn’t leave Tom and James, which ruled out running unless he could bargain for their release, but if anyone found out that he’d broken his word… 

A gentleman breaking an oath was unforgivable, even under the rules of war.

Alex would have to put his squeamishness aside. His country came first. Getting the intelligence out quickly was more important than anything else. He’d send the letter, and think of something after that.

“Well?” Gregorovich was waiting. “Which is it to be?” 

“My word.” Alex swallowed painfully, and attempted to look like he meant it. “As a gentleman, that I will remain out of the war.” 

Alex thought he saw something like a gleam of triumph in Gregorovich’s gaze as the man studied him. But it was impossible to tell how convincing he found Alex’s performance. 

“Very well,” Gregorovich said steadily. “But I hope you will not give me reason to doubt that word, Alexander. I would hate to see you back here for having broken it.”

* * *

Alex did break it. And his luck had most definitely run out.

Less than twenty-four hours later he found himself under arrest again. This time they were even less friendly, binding Alex’s hands and blindfolding him before forcing him to walk for what felt like at least forty minutes. It was only when he heard the sound of familiar jeers that he realised he’d been brought back to the French camp.

A minute later he was brought to a stop; he heard, rather than saw, a heavy door open. Alex had a split second to process where he must be going, before the strong hands either side of him yanked him roughly forward. He was half-dragged into somewhere warmer than the air outside, before being given a hard shove. He stumbled, and, unbalanced by the fact his hands were tied behind his back, fell forwards. He landed hard on his knees, and then his front, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him. Derisive laughter - the soldiers, probably. Alex heard footsteps and the door close and then it was quiet.

Alex braced himself for several seconds, wondering what was coming next. When nothing immediately happened, he tried to get his bearings. His cheek was pressing uncomfortably into the rug underneath him, the rough fibres itching at his skin. He could feel the heat from a fire somewhere to his right. To his left, the sound of scratching as someone used a quill. Gregorovich.

The sound of writing continued for what must have been several minutes. Alex didn’t move, figuring that bound up and blindfolded like this he was no more vulnerable on the floor than he was standing up. Instead, he thought about what he was going to say. He’d been caught in the local village, but the boy Alex had passed his letter to was already gone. There was no evidence that Alex had actually done anything wrong. The French soldiers who had caught him had seemed fairly convinced he had, but perhaps he could convince Gregorovich they’d been mistaken. He hadn’t been trying to pass on intelligence. He’d been…getting to know the locals. He was an officer and a gentleman. It would be rude to stay holed up in his tent. 

To his left, the cessation of writing followed by the faintest creak of wood shifting was all the warning Alex got before a hand grabbed his upper arm, right by the armpit, and pulled upwards. The rope binding his hands behind his back cut painfully into his wrists as he twisted his arms, trying to stay balanced as he was yanked onto his feet. He was steered a few feet to the side; then a hand pushed his head forward and down as it lifted his hands upwards, bending him over. It felt like the rope around his wrists was being connected to something above him – perhaps to a beam in the ceiling. Whatever it was, it was sturdy, taking a fair proportion of his weight and preventing him from lowering his arms. His shoulders and hamstrings were straining. It was hideously uncomfortable. 

Everything was still and silent for another minute. All Alex could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. His breath hitched as he tried to adjust his position. Rising onto his toes helped lessen the strain on his shoulders but left him perilously unbalanced. Leaning down more helped his arms but then blood rushed to his head. Neither good.

“You broke your word.”

Gregorovich’s voice. Speaking in English again. That calm, steady tone. He didn’t sound very uncertain about the matter, but Alex had to try anyway.

“I did _not_!” He forced every bit of scandalisation into that statement that he could. “I was - ”

“Quiet. My men are looking for the boy now.” A pause. “You swore an _oath_ , Alexander.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it, in the circumstances. Alex settled for defending his honour instead.

“I swore an oath to my country first.”

“Convenient that you should remember that _after_ taking my offer of pardon. If you were so determined to keep that oath then perhaps you should have died for it. That can be rectified.” There was a pause and then the voice was in front of him. “Was it a change of heart or did you take my oath knowing that you would break it the first moment you could?”

Alex gritted his teeth, unwilling to damn himself with an answer. The silence stretched on and then fabric rustled softly moving away behind him. Perhaps Gregorovich had tired of talking or perhaps he planned to carry out the sentence now. He listened, praying for the creak of the chair, a sign that he would be safe even for a moment.

And then he heard it - a whisper of steel being unsheathed. What must have been a blade slipped under his coat, resting flat against his lower back. Alex froze, his breath caught in his throat.

“What did you put in the message you gave the boy?” Gregorovich asked. His voice was soft again. 

Alex was silent. If he was going to die, he thought, it was going to be with honour; not selling out his country.

The blade was inched forward, then – angled upwards? What was Gregorovich doing? Alex realised what the intention was just as it was thrust upwards through his clothing, then ripped back, slicing straight through.

“Imagine, if this is what it does to cloth, just how your skin will fare,” Gregorovich said. 

Alex swallowed dryly. He knew exactly how well; he was no stranger to seeing such things. Even, on occasion, been forced to carry them out himself. 

“Answer the question, Alexander.”

“No.”

The knife was slipped under the coat and pulled back again, extending the rip. “A bit late to hold onto the tatters of your honour after breaking an oath, I would think.”

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” Alex bit out. 

A hum from behind him. “The messenger boy, though.” Two long years along his arms and Alex felt the weight of his coat fall off him. He was left in his shirt and waistcoat. The room was warm enough not to feel cold. 

“What about him?” Alex asked.

“What if I were to offer my word that he would be spared?” There was the rustle of fabric, and then warm breath against his ear. “It is not so cheaply tossed away as yours.”

Alex jerked his head away, and fingers curled roughly in his hair, pulling him back. Gregorovich’s voice was cold when he spoke again.

“My men will catch him, Alexander. Do you want to see him hanged? Perhaps I would make you pull the lever. What’s one more death on your hands before your own?”

Alex spat at him. The hand withdrew and then Alex’s head was snapped to the side by a harsh slap that stung his cheek. He had earned that, he supposed. But Gregorovich was no better, the idea of hanging a _child_ \- 

Before he could dwell anymore cold steel was being pressed into his back, tip scratching against him and then his waistcoat was being torn asunder as well. Two more short, sharp rips at the shoulder and that was gone too. Now he was down to his shirt. Not much protection. A horrible suspicion was curling in Alex’s stomach that Gregorovich intended to whip him - or cane him, perhaps. Alex had managed to avoid that fate during these wars - though he’d witnessed it happen often enough. It was all he could do not to shiver at the thought.

“Perhaps your men’s deaths would better motivate answers,” Gregorovich commented. “Tell me: how many have to die for information that I will get anyway?” 

“You must not be very confident in getting it if you’re interrogating me,” Alex couldn’t help but point out.

“Oh, this is not an interrogation, Alexander. Should you remain uncooperative that will come later. This is merely an opportunity to stitch some of your honour back together. One officer to another before I unleash you to the wolves in the rest of the camp.”

The knife slipped into his breeches this time and Alex stilled.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you think they will leave you untouched? There have not been many women around. They are quite eager.”

“You _wouldn’t,”_ Alex hissed. _“_ Officers _-_ ” 

A soft snort from behind him. “You have already spat in the face of the rules of conduct, quite literally. What makes you think you’re still entitled to receive shelter under them?”

Alex’s heart was thudding. He gritted his teeth. “What about your honour?” 

“ _My_ honour?” Gregorovich’s tone was politely inquisitive, but there was something underneath it that made Alex’s blood chill. For a moment there was silence, neither of them speaking; Alex feeling the press of the knife point inside his breeches. 

Then, suddenly, it was gone. Another slide of steel - the knife must have been sheathed again.

“I prefer a willing and eager party in my bed.” The slightest rustle of clothing betrayed Gregorovich’s movements around Alex to stand in front of his head. The blindfold was swiftly removed, and fingers laced into his hair, pulling it back. Alex blinked rapidly and stared at Gregorovich, whose grey-blue eyes bored into Alex’s. It somehow made Alex feel more naked than if Gregorovich had ripped off _all_ of his clothing. “I have no interest in taking by force when I can have my pick of partners,” Gregorovich told him.

He reached up; unhooked Alex’s bound hands from whatever he’d been hanging from; and then let him go. Alex nearly fell from the suddenness of the movement but caught himself just in time, just about remaining standing as he forced himself upright again. He looked back up at Gregorovich, who was leaning back against the mahogany desk, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

“Right,” said Alex. “What was all that about, then?” He felt angry and humiliated; worse, blindsided by his inability to predict what Gregorovich was going to do next. 

Gregorovich smiled thinly. “Merely underlining what fate might await you were you to be passed into the hands of less...generous men than me.”

It was difficult to think of Gregorovich as being the generous sort given the threats that had just been made.

“What do you want?” Alex ground out. “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it.”

Gregorovich’s smile faded a little. His eyes searched Alex. 

“You’re not afraid of dying,” he said.

“Death’d be better company than you.” 

Gregorovich’s lips twitched. 

“You’re a brave man, Alexander,” he said. “But I rather think your messenger boy won’t be so courageous.” 

Alex’s stomach dropped at the mention of the messenger again. More blood on his hands. How old had the child been? Eleven? Twelve? Too young to die for a country that wasn’t even his.

“You don’t have to kill him,” Alex choked out.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow. Alex caught that same flash of triumph he’d seen when he’d given his word to stay out of the war.

“Persuade me not to,” Gregorovich said coolly.

 _How?_ Alex nearly asked, before he stopped up short. There was something going on here. Something Alex had been slow to catch onto. What had Gregorovich said? _I prefer a willing, eager party in my bed._

Did Gregorovich mean what Alex _thought_ he meant?

He eyed the man warily. Just in case the point wasn’t already clear, Gregorovich adjusted his position against the desk, spreading his legs a fraction.

“That is _absurd_ ,” Alex said before he could stop himself. Gregorovich seemed unperturbed. 

“Is it?” he asked. His tone was polite again, but he was looking at Alex in a way that suggested he knew _precisely_ what had gone through Alex’s head when they had first met. 

And it was _still_ going through Alex’s head, wasn’t it? Even after Gregorovich had manhandled him, had humiliated him - Alex was willing to admit (if rather more grudgingly than the first time he’d thought it) that Gregorovich was probably one of the most attractive men he’d ever met. 

But it was one thing to think it, and quite another to act on it. 

Wasn’t it?

“I can see you’re finding the decision difficult,” Gregorovich said dryly. “What if I were to add some extra incentive? I will not send my men after the boy at all.”

Alex stilled. That _was_ incentive. If Alex’s messenger got to the British troops - if the boy managed to pass on Alex’s intelligence - 

“I don’t believe you,” Alex said. “Why would you do that, when you don’t know what was in the letter?”

Gregorovich’s lips twitched again. “I think I assured you that we would get the information anyway.”

Right. Because Gregorovich intended to interrogate Alex - or get his band of men to do it, anyway. But that relied on Alex giving up his information. Gregorovich behaved like he knew Alex - that he’d heard a lot about him, anyway - but if Gregorovich was staking all his hopes on Alex blurting out his country’s secrets, he clearly didn’t know Alex half as well as he liked to pretend.

“Well?” Gregorovich was starting to sound impatient.

Alex swallowed. Could he do it? To save a child’s life? Ensure the information he’d discovered got back to where it needed to? Alex would die - Gregorovich had made no promises about _his_ life - but at least he’d have died making a difference.

“What do you want?” Alex asked.

Gregorovich smiled, flashing white teeth this time. “I’m prepared to negotiate.” 

Alex said nothing. Did Gregorovich really expect him to start bartering? If Alex was going to debase himself in the name of patriotism, he’d rather just be told what he had to do and get on with it.

His thoughts must have shown on his face. Gregorovich suddenly pushed himself off the desk and came forward. He stopped in front of Alex - even closer than he had been the first time that they had met. He lifted one hand, trailing the back of it down Alex’s face before his thumb rubbed roughly against his lip. Alex stayed still, conscious of what hung in the balance.

“I think,” Gregorovich said softly, “that it would be nice to put these lips to use for something other than lying and spilling secrets.”

Rather less of a price than Alex might have expected.

“Unless you have other ideas?” Gregorovich was watching him carefully. His thumb had paused on Alex’s bottom lip.

_I’m prepared to negotiate._

Alex gazed at the handsome face in front of him. Decided to be bold. 

“What would it cost for me to get a ride out of here?” he asked. “With both of my men. _Without_ being interrogated?”

Gregorovich tilted his chin upwards, as if considering. It wasn’t an immediate no, Alex noted. “What about the boy?”

“He’s left alone. Your men don’t go after him.”

“That’s rather a lot to ask.” Gregorovich’s gaze dropped, lingering downwards, and then back up. There seemed to be an unspoken question in his gaze. 

Alex raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a clear answer. Gregorovich’s lips gave another small, subtle twitch.

“I believe,” he said evenly, “we might be able to work something out. Officer to officer.”

* * *

_4 weeks later_

_London, England_

“Well, Alex. It seems England must thank you for your exemplary patriotism once again.”

It felt like a lifetime ago that Alex had last stood in this study in London, opposite the blank-faced man sat on the other side of the desk. Alan Blunt had opted for a grey velvet waistcoat today, and the overall effect was to make him seem blander than ever. Alex himself was standing next to the fireplace, no longer dressed in his military uniform, but in more casual breeches and a thick navy coat that even Yassen Gregorovich would have found it difficult to slice through.

“Has Bonaparte taken the terms yet?” Alex asked.

“Not yet. It’s only a matter of time. Leipzig was decisive.” Blunt paused. “Thanks to you and the intelligence your messenger delivered.” His brow furrowed. “Why _did_ you send a messenger, incidentally?”

“I told the Commanding Officer; we got waylaid by the French,” Alex said. 

“So I heard. But how did you manage to get the message out?”

_You broke your word._

“I got the message out before we were captured.” Alex cleared his throat. “Good thing too. I heard the boy only managed to get to Wellington’s troops in the nick of time.”

_What if I were to add some extra incentive? I will not send my men after the boy at all._

“And the French took you to…” Blunt glanced down at something on his desk. Alex realised it must be a letter of report from Wellington’s officers. “Yassen Gregorovich.”

_Blue-grey eyes boring into Alex, as if they could see into his soul._

“That’s right.” Alex’s mouth seemed to have gone slightly dry, and he coughed. 

“And he just - let you go?” Blunt seemed surprised. As well he might. Alex had heard quite a lot about Gregorovich’s reputation since leaving the French camp. Giving quarter to officers might have been the done thing everywhere else, but Gregorovich, contrary to what he had told Alex, didn’t apparently didn’t consider himself bound by European customs and wasn’t in the habit of keeping British officers alive. Even those that kept their word.

_A thumb brushing Alex’s lips. The curve of Gregorovich’s own as Alex slowly reached up to unbutton his shirt._

“We came to a gentleman’s agreement,” was Alex’s response.


	2. Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so excited and honored to include this lovely art by Ireliss as inspired by the fic. Please check out more of their stunning work at the tumblr account below!
> 
> https://irelise.tumblr.com/tagged/screibbles


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